


Tenebrae

by unexpectedtrash



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Architecture References, Architecture dick jokes, Art References, Clergy AU, Dirty Talk, IDK who's jesus in the metaphor anymore, M/M, Misuses of Holy Oil, Outdoor Sex, Public Sex, Regularly Scheduled Catholic Self-Flagellation, Rimming, Stations of the Cross, Tenebrae - Freeform, These prostate sinners, Viktor is a transitional deacon, Viktor's Flower Crown aka Viktor's Crown of Thorns, Visita Iglesia, Yuuri and Catholic Guilt is my OTP, Yuuri is a Jesuit novice, Yuuri is a musician, a sestina which is not plot relevant, all this makes it sound dirtier than it really is, an alarming amount, foot washing, in Latin, music references, pls take all this culture and enjoy the desecration, service top Viktor, viktor's foot thing, will u pipe my organ
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 16:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10700949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unexpectedtrash/pseuds/unexpectedtrash
Summary: The candles flicker in the darkness of the cathedral, and Yuuri whispers: “You know it’s not right. That we can’t –”The medal of St. John the Beloved  around Viktor’s neck has never felt more like a shackle.Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.ORViktor is on his way to ordination. Yuuri is a novice Jesuit, devoted to music and to his order. They love God with all their heart, all their strength, and with all their mind.





	Tenebrae

**Author's Note:**

> The Rivals Series Discord Group is a filthy enabler and I am a slave to their whims. But I'd like to thank in particular [evermore](http://evermoredeath.tumblr.com) and [asce](http://lovelytitania.tumblr.com) because of their beautiful beautiful uses of color in their work! As you can see this fic has been heavily inspired by it. Their art is so great huhu and you should check it out! 
> 
> A word on form: some sections of this fic is heavily dependent on related music. As much as possible, please listen! uwu i know that some people won't have the option to, but it makes everything so much nicer <3 <3 <3

**Chapter One: Maundy Thursday _, Visita Iglesia_**

John 13:6-10

_Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Simon Peter said to him, “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!”_

_Jesus said to him, “One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.”_

* * *

 

Cathedrals are named for the _cathedra_ , and Yuuri, sitting before the congregation on Maundy Thursday, feels the weight of ancient power vested in the chair behind him. He knows what they all see: two rows of pillars, carved out of stone and drawing the eye into the nave and up to the vaulted ceiling. The tower at the crossing, the apse of the eastern end with its famous stained glass windows. The altar and its _cathedra_ , richly carved and made in proportion to the size of this cathedral, built at the zenith of the Church’s medieval excesses.

Churches were made to be grand, created to inspire awe with their beauty. Yuuri knows himself unworthy, feels the sharp sting of guilt as keenly as a sharpened dagger in his side.

The cathedral is packed for today’s service; even so, silence reigns over the congregation. The only sounds are distant footsteps and the hushed wail of a child. For a second Yuuri wishes himself younger, wishes himself returned to innocence, but he knows it’s too late. His sin is too deeply embedded into his soul. 

The bishop must be removing his magnificent purple cope and donning the gremiale around his waist, mitre forgone in this act of humility. There will be the deacons; in dalmatics and waiting to assist, basins and pitchers of water on hand. Yuuri knows this service, knows every psalm, every reading, every gesture loaded with meaning. The knowledge brings him no comfort. It only makes his sin all the more corrupt; that he was so educated in theology and philosophy, and managed to throw all that knowledge aside in a moment of weakness? God gives mercy to the foolish; but what of the wilful?

A gasp from the choir loft; Yuuri very nearly weeps when he hears Sara sing: “[ _Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est_.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnfJL-fFMbU)” Where love and charity are, God is. But what of the wrong kinds of love, disordered and lustful?

Yuuri fixes his gaze on the graceful vaults of the cathedral’s crossing; he wills the tears back and fails.

He hears the rustle of clothing, and when he drops his gaze back to the ground it is to the sight of the worn face of Bishop Feltsman, unreadable and sphinx-like. Kneeling beside him, his silvery hair a perfect match for the dalmatic he is wearing, is Viktor. He is pale and his hands are shaking, his shoulders hunched over in defeat as he pours water over Yuuri’s feet.

Yuuri cries. He buries his face in his hands and refuses to look, but he can still feel it: the cool rush of water over his feet, the soft brush of the towel wiping them clean, Bishop Feltsman’s warm breath as he kisses Yuuri’s feet in benediction.

He’s not worthy, he never could be. Not as long as he still remembers the sight of Viktor on his knees, the feeling of his embrace, his lips on Yuuri’s skin.

* * *

 

The light from the windows casts shades of gold and amber across the chapel; despite the summer heat Yuuri is glad for the color. Without the windows, Xavier Chapel had an austere look, with its white marble floors and black pews and furnishings. Even the exteriors suffered the same austerity, the façade built in black granite, the clean lines of the modern architecture accented only by polished brass fittings on the windows and doors. But the stained glass above the main entrance seemed alight with fire at all times of day; the red and amber glass depicting St. Francis Xavier.

Yuuri loves this chapel; he loves the simplicity of it, the minimalist design, the way faith intertwined with rigid rationality in the steep angles of the pyramid-like structure, built with scientific precision and yet drawing the eye to the heavens. He loves the intersections of science and art, theology and design, but most of all, Yuuri loves the choir-loft.

Suspended right above the chapel’s main entrance and right below the stained glass, it looks an impossible sight; a cantilever seemingly unsupported, with clear glass panes creating the illusion that the choir-loft had no railing. But the best aspect of it is the sound; the acoustics of churches were always incredible, but here in Xavier Chapel, music sounds better than it did even in the university’s many music rooms.

It isn’t open to students, not outside of mass, but Yuuri’s spiritual director is Father Celestino, head of the music department and also the musical director for the campus ministry. The chapel caretakers already know Yuuri quite well, both from choir practice and from daily mass; they let Yuuri in without question if the chapel happened to be free.

Yuuri is grateful for it; nothing soothes him more than making music in beautiful churches. It reminds Yuuri of that lost time years ago, when he was uprooted and hurting and with no direction and nothing to ground his life. And then he met Father Celestino, found his faith, and something inside him settled when Father Celestino told him to play music and pray.

He chases that feeling of surety now, tightens his bow and begins to play. The chapel is empty and no one is here to hear, no one except God and the Holy Spirit.

Father Celestino had pulled him aside this morning, brought Yuuri into his office and said: “A nearby parish wants to form a children’s choir for their orphanage as part of a summer music program. They were looking for a conductor and I recommended you.”

“Me?” Yuuri had spluttered. “But – Father, I’m just a student, I couldn’t possibly –”

“You’re more than ready to take on this kind of responsibility, Yuuri!” Father Celestino had laughed, and had patted Yuuri’s back encouragingly. The man was an endless well of optimism and good cheer, but sometimes Yuuri couldn’t follow. Hope and happiness came so easily for people like Father Celestino, and Yuuri couldn’t understand how they didn’t seem to hear it, the endless thrum of anxiety and self-doubt that colored all of Yuuri’s days.

Still, Father Celestino spoke of it as a done deal; the Parish of Our Lady of Sorrows had asked for a recommended conductor for a parish short on funds and not many options, and Father Celestino had a music student doing post-graduate work in choral conducting but had no choir. It seemed a perfect match, and objectively, Yuuri knew that it was. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of disaster, the impression that something horrible was going to happen, and so Yuuri had packed up his violin and went to Xavier Chapel hours earlier than intended.

He is supposed to meet the assistant director of the orphanage today, and Yuuri really needs to get his head on straight, both for that meeting and for choir rehearsals with Father Celestino that afternoon. He has a solo to perform, a colleague to impress, and Yuuri needs to pull himself together.

The music from his violin begins to fill the chapel, and Yuuri loses himself in the music, gives himself up to God.

~

Rehearsals are going well; Yuuri had drilled his fellow tenors well enough during sectionals that the Poulenc mass was no problem. They had gotten an approving nod from Father Celestino after that run-through, even as the altos were scolded for their lack of control over their volume and Father Celestino fretted about the vocal color of the sopranos.

Ešenvalds’ _Northern Lights_ is up last; a difficult piece and one where Yuuri is the designated soloist. Father Celestino gestures for everyone to get ready; Phichit distributes wine glasses filled with water and Michele hands out the chimes.

Unlike most of their repertoire, _Northern Lights_ is a secular piece, the text lifted from the journals of Arctic explorers seeing the auroras for the first time. Everything about the piece suggests the magnificence of auroral lights: the tuned wine glasses, the chimes, the way the melody mirrored the rippling lights in the sky with glissandos and the triplet motif passed between the sections. And framing all this, the solo: a Latvian folk song.

 _Whenever at night, far in the north, I saw the kāvi soldiers (Northern Lights) having their battle, I was afraid; perhaps they m_ _ight bring a war to my land too._

The awe and fear of both texts feeds into each other and into the music, and of all their pieces, this is the one Yuuri loved the most.                       

Everyone shuffles into place, and silence descends at Father Celestino’s gesture. The air is charged with expectation, as it always is before a performance, and all at once everyone takes a breath. [The music begins](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0WcXxXV13I).

“ _Cik naksnīnas pret ziemeli, redzēj kavus karojam,_ ” Yuuri sings, focused on Father Celestino’s direction, being mindful of the other sections in the background. “ _Ē redzēj kavus karojam_.”

The wine glasses come into play, their cold resonance adding to the thick illusion of the auroras; Yuuri feels himself slip further and further away from the reality of the chapel, the summer heat, and deeper into the music with its great soldiers in the Arctic sky.

“ _Karo kāvi pie debesu, vedīs karus mūs’ zemē; Ē vedīs karus mūs zemē._ ” He sings with feeling, pleading with the _kāvi_ to be spared. Suddenly, the feeling of imminent disaster returns, heavy in the air and tension creeping in between the hushed voices of the choir. Yuuri feels it in the very core of himself; something was to happen, something to change everything –

And it happens all at once, in the space of a few breaths –

 _Come above,_ Yuuri sings – _come above, Hall –_ a man comes up the stairs to the choir loft, as if Yuuri beckoned him closer – _come above at once, Hall!_ – Yuuri glances in his direction, only barely registers the stranger’s presence – _the world, the world is on fire!_ – His hair, his face is on fire, set alight in the golds and reds of the stained glass, the crown of light a halo for this stranger’s ethereal beauty, silver hair and blue eyes and pale skin.

In the space of a few breaths, Yuuri is lost.

* * *

 

“Do you ever think about love, Yuuri?”

Viktor’s tone is nonchalant, but in the harsh light of the streetlamps, his face is pensive and his eyes sad. The summer heat hangs heavy over the street, and Viktor’s melancholy is palpable in the air. The change in mood is unsettling: one moment, Yuuri and Viktor were talking, excited for the possibilities and potential for the kids recruited into the youth choir; the next, Viktor had pulled away, enthusiasm extinguished and inexplicably sad.

There was one boy in particular that caught Yuuri’s attention that afternoon: an eleven year-old boy, also named Yuri, who had an enchanting treble voice and did all of Yuuri’s vocal exercises with ease. “He’s got talent,” Yuuri had acknowledged, “but his attitude is terrible and I’m worried it might cause friction within the choir. Do you know why he’s acting so sullen?”

It had disturbed Yuuri to see a child so closed off, so determined to turn everyone away. Guang-hong, a little Chinese boy also in the choir, had tried to talk to Yuri; in the end he burst into tears and needed to be comforted by one of the older boys, Leo. If that kind of behavior kept up, the internal dynamics of the choir would be damaged. As much as Yuuri also cared about the kids, as their conductor his greatest concern was the music.

Viktor had replied: “He’s new to the orphanage. His grandfather died last month, and it’s been rough. Mr. Plisetsky was his last relative capable of looking after him; he’s had… a difficult time adjusting, you could say.” Viktor paused. “Yura’s mother – she could have taken him but didn’t. That must have hurt.”

Yuuri had badly wanted to ask, but the light of mischief in Viktor’s eyes had long disappeared. The single bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling of the bus stop washed out all color; Viktor’s eyes were colorless and he seemed as closed off as a marble statue. Then he turned to Yuuri and asked; do you ever think about love?

Yuuri gives the question some consideration now, eyes drawn up to the lights: the streetlamps with their cold brightness and the stars beautiful and distant. Even here, out in the suburbs of this diocese, artificial lights overshadow the pure light from the heavens. In the sharp fluorescent lighting, the prefabricated concrete of Our Lady of Sorrows seems all the more utilitarian. It felt... pragmatic; artless and loveless.       

It bothers Yuuri. It makes him think of things he’s forced down, forced out of his mind for very good reasons.  

“I’ve thought about it before, but I’ve always accepted that right now, I’m not going to understand love.” He shrugs. “It takes time, I think – time and experience to really know love, and you need to know it from both ends to understand it truly.”

Here they are, the doubts he’d always had but felt too ashamed to articulate: “I _know_ that I’m loved; my parents love me, and my sister Mari too. My parents put up with me and they’ve worked so hard to provide for me and support me, both with my music and with my formation. Mari-neesan…”  Yuuri hesitates.

Viktor turns to him, puzzled at his sudden silence. However, Yuuri is struggling. How does he put into words everything that Mari-neesan did for him? She did so much to make him the man he was today. She put the first violin into Yuuri’s hands when he was a little boy. When he was a bit older but no wiser, seventeen and believing that the end had come after he messed up a handful of auditions, it was Mari-neesan who threw clothes into his suitcase and brought him to St. Nikolai’s – to St. Nikolai’s, and to Father Celestino.

“She knows me,” Yuuri realizes. “She knows me to the very core of me, and without her I’d never have gotten to where I am today or become the person that I am. And I’m grateful!” He interjects, hoping to reassure Viktor that he loved his family too. “I love my family, a lot. I’m not very good at showing it, but…

He looks up again, searching for the comforting and familiar permanence of the stars in the sky. “Sometimes, I think… that it’s a little like giri-choco. It’s still chocolate, and it’s still sweet, and if you get the right kind then it’s just as delicious as hommei-choco.” Yuuri swallows, the next words bubbling up his throat despite his shame. “But it’s hard, sometimes. To shake off the feeling that it’s all just an obligation.”

Yuuri falls silent, and he’s glad when Viktor chooses not to press the issue. He takes a moment to collect himself, to smooth his expression back to the placid indifference required of the Jesuit Yuuri hoped to someday be. When he felt sufficiently recovered, Yuuri glances back at Viktor, a question on his lips, but Viktor beats him to the punch.

“I never had parents,” Viktor confesses. “I never had a family. All I ever knew was Father Yakov’s rectory, and after that, I was in boarding schools on scholarship, all the way to university and post-graduate work. I’ve never had anyone – just a string of past lovers, and look!” He smiles sardonically. “I’m here and they’re not; it’s perfectly obvious that wasn’t what I’m looking for.”

“What _are_ you looking for?” Yuuri asks curiously. He can’t imagine what it would be like, to be so uprooted, and his heart ached for this lonely man he’d just met.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Viktor laughs. It sounds weak and uncertain, and Viktor, who seems uncomfortable with vulnerability, pastes on a smile. “In any case, I wouldn’t know. You just said it yourself: you need to experience love from both sides to understand it.”

* * *

 

“Is this it?”

Viktor stands by the gate of the inn, marvelling at the old building. It was a converted Jesuit seminary that his parents bought when they left Japan; the University of St. Francis Xavier’s seminary had just been completed and the Jesuits moved all their novices to the campus. Sometimes Yuuri thinks about this and is overwhelmed by the series of coincidences that led him here, another novice of the Society of Jesus returning to this lost seminary. It makes the inn feel like home twice over.

The inn has a clean, bright look to it, even after all these years. Somehow, just by looking at the building, Yuuri can feel his parents’ affection beginning to surround him, in the way that their presence seemed to hover over the gardens. His father tended to the gardens himself, careful to keep watch over the plants even when the snow covered the gardens. This time of year, the gardens are festooned with Christmas lights, cheerful Christmas colors blinking against the fresh white snow. His mother kept an eagle-eyed watch over the cleaning and the building’s maintenance and it showed. The whole building looked just as good as it did when Yuuri was little.  

“Yeah. We moved here from Japan when I was little, and my parents have been running this inn ever since. Come on! I want to get out of the cold.”

The inn is warm, and as he and Viktor enter, Yuuri calls out: “ _Tadaima_!”

It’s exactly the way it has always been: the foyer with its raised step up to the main house, shoes arranged neatly in racks and slippers already waiting for guests. It smells like good food, as it always did; his father’s coat hangs on a peg in the hallway, like it always did. Yuuri feels the security of home settle around his bones, and he glances at Viktor, over his shoulder. Viktor looks shy and unsure, but Yuuri’s spirits lift to see that he also looks fascinated.

“Is that Yuuri-kun?” Yuuri hears his mother bustling in the kitchen, and that was when the scent of Christmas dinner really hit home. Michele and Father Celestino bonded over _panettone_ and seafood pasta; Yuuri expected Christmas cake and fried chicken.

His mother comes out of the kitchen, still wiping her hands on her apron. “ _Okaeri_ , Yuuri-kun.” Her smile is warm and loving; when she gives Yuuri a brief hug, her hair smells like gingerbread. “And Vicchan! You’re so tall!”

Viktor is nearly an entire foot taller than her, but Yuuri’s mom still manages to browbeat him into giving her a hug. “Now take off your coats! They’re all damp from the snow, and you’re going to catch a cold if you stay in them too long. Come into the kitchen when you’re done; you can help me with the food.”

Viktor looks abashed and even Yuuri feels vaguely embarrassed. His coat is dripping into the hallway, and he turns to hang it up on the coat rack. Yuuri hears Viktor’s clothes rustle as well, and when Viktor hands him his coat –

Viktor is wearing a deep, wine-red sweater, in wool that looks almost sinfully soft, and suddenly, Yuuri can’t breathe. He remembers: the red-gold of autumn leaves, the ruby red of Viktor’s lips in the cold, the pretty, pink flush of Viktor’s cock, the stained glass sacred heart –

“Um, Yuuri? Where should I hang my coat?”

Yuuri blinks. “You’re wearing red.”

Viktor frowns, looks down at his shirt. “It’s Christmas?”

Yuuri blinks again, tries to shake his head clear of the confusion. “Right. Um. I’ll take your coat.”

* * *

 

On the second day of the retreat, Yuuri digs out his violin and a folio of staff paper, and he treks out to a quiet, secluded corner of the forest.

Technically speaking, this is a _silent_ retreat. But Father Celestino’s words had always rung true throughout Yuuri’s spiritual core: “It’s easy to recognize God’s grace in nature, Yuuri, because it’s also easy to accept nature as God’s creations. It’s much harder to acknowledge that even we were created by the Lord.

“In some cases, it’s human arrogance that can keep us from a closer relationship with God. For others, it’s hard to feel worthy of God’s grace. But remember, Yuuri, that for all our flaws and failures, man can still be an instrument of God. We serve His will, and we bear His message. God speaks through men as well He does through nature, and you can hear Him in your own music if you listen hard enough.”

Father Celestino had then handed Yuuri his violin, and Yuuri, seventeen and hurting, convinced that music was closed to him forever, had almost refused to take it.

Now, though, Yuuri can barely imagine prayer that didn’t include music. It’s embedded into his soul, the only way Yuuri can really express all that churned up within himself. Ever since that first retreat, the monks at St. Nikolai’s had been indulgent; all they requested was that Yuuri find a secluded place to pray and play.

Yuuri was happy enough to oblige, and he had found a good spot by a bend in the stream not too far from the monastery. There are large boulders by the rocky shore he can sit on, and from that vantage point, Yuuri can see the chapel. The solitary belfry rises through the forest skyline, its solemn gray stone and sober windows fitted with black iron contrasting sharply with the vividness of color – the red-gold of autumn and the bright blue sky.

He goes there often when on retreat, usually with a violin, sometimes with a guitar. He is content to idly run through his music, sometimes playing pieces for class or practicing pieces for accompaniment to church services.

This time, however, he is going to do more than just play. Yuuri is determined to produce something, to create something he could offer to God.

~

By the fourth day of their retreat the manuscript is finished; Yuuri had avoided all other brothers in favor of finishing the piece. Privately, Yuuri thinks it’s beautiful, the lines of the song centered on a main melody sung by soprano and layered with organ music and woodwinds. It’s hardly revolutionary in terms of instrumentation for religious music, but it is also as sincere as Yuuri could write it.

The pines around him smell spicy and bright; the red leaves of autumn float around him in lazy arcs. It’s a beautiful day for music. Yuuri’s running through the last bars of the piece when he hears leaves crunching underfoot nearby. He looks up.

It’s Viktor, half-hidden behind a tree and clutching a large notebook under his arm. He looks vaguely guilty to have been caught watching. Yuuri huffs out a tiny laugh, and without thinking twice, gestures toward a large rock nearby in invitation.

He smiles warmly at Viktor when he was finally seated, just to show him that he isn’t intruding. Yuuri makes a little bow as well, and gestures to the open folio on the music stand. Viktor raises an eyebrow.

 _An original composition?_ He seems to ask.

Yuuri only smiles. It is only right that the first person to hear _On Love: Agape_ is Viktor; who else would Yuuri perform this piece for?

Yuuri raises the violin to his chin and begins to play.

For someone like Yuuri, who has often found it difficult to pray, each note is a prayer on its own. Somehow he could never put what he felt into words, and instead he would resort to the familiar cadences of traditional Latin prayer. But with a violin in his hands, it’s easy to pour himself into the music and know that God is listening.

Viktor sits on the rock, enraptured, as Yuuri plays on. This song is adoration, supplication, and thanksgiving all in one, and in that tiny pocket of stolen time, Viktor’s warmth nearby and God’s presence pressing into Yuuri all around, Yuuri finally feels at peace. He feels whole, he feels perfect, and to beg forgiveness for this moment feels ungrateful.

Contrition can wait for another day.

The next day, after breakfast at the refectory, Viktor follows Yuuri into the forest.

* * *

 

“Viktor!” Yuuri hurries to catch up to him, the box burning a hole through his pocket. “Do you have a minute?”

Viktor, already by the cathedral gates, pauses. He is unfairly beautiful in the winter, blending into the snow and shadow of the cathedral’s grounds with his dark coat and light hair. He looks like an ink painting, his bright blue eyes vivid in the colorless landscape. It drives the breath from Yuuri’s lungs.

“Is there a problem?” Viktor asks, concerned. “We were about to leave for the youth center, but if there’s an issue with the kids I can catch up to them later.”

Yuuri swallows. “No! It’s just – Happy birthday.”

Viktor’s eyes widen slightly. “Thank you. I didn’t think you’d know.”

“Of course I do. And, it’s Christmas anyway, and I’d have…” Yuuri fumbles in his pockets, and produces the box wrapped in beautiful green paper and tied with a festive red ribbon. “This is for you.”

Viktor’s face breaks out into a wide smile. “You didn’t have to! But thank you, I’m sure it’s lovely.”

He moves to stow the box into his pocket, and Yuuri panics. “No! You should open it now, here.”

Here? In the shadow of the cathedral, its towers and spires casting long shadows over the landscape?

Yuuri feels exposed here, as if the cathedral itself were a living creature, every window an eye watching, spying. What he and Viktor had – it was private, it was theirs. Yuuri had sworn vows of obedience, poverty, and chastity; in the face of those vows Yuuri feels small. In the shadow of this cathedral, Yuuri feels miniscule. To give Viktor even this small token of his love felt illicit against the backdrop of the church, and Yuuri fights the urge to snatch the box away from Viktor’s fingers and retreat.

But one glance at Viktor is enough: Viktor, with his blue eyes and red cheeks, cold in the snow but warm to Yuuri’s touch. Viktor smiles at him, amused at his vehemence, and at the sight emotion surges in Yuuri’s heart: hope, courage and something Yuuri only recently named ‘love’.

Yuuri drags Viktor away from the gates, takes him to a quiet corner of the cathedral garden. It’s the Calvary garden, fourteen stations clustered together and desolate in Christmastide. The gardens are empty and barren, and it comes as no surprise. It is today that the Lord was born; it is no time to remember how He died.

Viktor makes quick work of the ribbon, and after carefully putting it away, he rips off the paper with glee. Yuuri can see nervousness flit across his face when he sees the jewelry box within, but before Yuuri can make any reassurances, Viktor lifts the lid.

Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a golden medal, the image of St. John the Beloved carved onto the surface.

“I wanted to get you something,” Yuuri explains awkwardly. “I know things have been… strange… between us, after last September.”

How could he explain everything? The insistent beat of his heart, pleading with him to grab hold of Viktor and never let go? The warmth that fills his soul whenever Viktor was close? The desperate longing that filled his bed when the nights got colder and colder? Yuuri can hardly understand it himself. Yuuri doesn’t even have a clear explanation for the medal; he only barely remembers passing by the shop window two weeks ago, and catching a glimpse of it. He somehow _knew_ , knew that this would be a sign he needed to show Viktor. Yuuri runs out of words easily; music, his second language, falters just as quickly. But this medal, solid and real, with the face of Jesus’ most beloved apostle upon its face?

Yuuri struggles with the words. “You – you must know. It’s not right, for us to… But still. You need to know that –”       

“That I’m your beloved?”

Viktor’s tone is deceptively light, but there’s a look in his eyes that Yuuri knows. Every muscle in Yuuri’s body tenses, because he knows what will happen next, but they’re still _right next to the cathedral_ –

Viktor kisses him. Yuuri expected something dirty, something fiery and passionate. But today Viktor kisses him with the same tenderness with which he had washed Yuuri’s feet that awful day at St. Nikolai’s. The kiss is soft and loving, and the whole of Yuuri’s body relaxes, sighing into Viktor’s embrace.

It always feels right. Why did he have to say goodbye?

They break apart, and Viktor’s warm breath breathes life into Yuuri once again. A numbness had settled into Yuuri’s heart when the leaves started to fall, a numbness that encroached when Yuuri refused to admit he’d fallen too. But –

 _Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est._ A love like this can only have been a gift from God, and to reject it now, the day the world was blessed with the Son of God? Christmas Day, to Yuuri, can only be a day of blessing, for this was the day the Lord had come, and this was the day Viktor came into the world.

Yuuri buries his face in Viktor’s coat. “Stay,” he whispers.

A beat, and Viktor replies, voice wrecked with emotion. “Always.”

* * *

 

“Yuuri.”

This pulpit was made to project sound. Even the softest _pianissimo_ can be heard throughout the cathedral, music travelling across the nave and curling around every pillar like a caress. Yuuri knows this, and knows it well; he knows how to manipulate voice and instrument and make music that could affect every one of the faithful who came to this cathedral to pray. His music brings congregations to their _knees_.

But this? One word, spoken softly, spoken tenderly – the sound of his name reverberates across that ancient hall of worship. It hangs in the silence until the very air was thick with longing, thick with heartbreak.

Yuuri can’t breathe. He doesn’t dare.

His papers are still scattered across the organ’s console; his hands are shaking too badly to pick up the pieces. The half-light of dusk filters through the spring rains and the stained glass windows of the cathedral. The passion of Christ is writ in glass and iron, but the images offer no assistance, no comfort as Yuuri fights the urge to look upon Christ’s face and weep. The Paschal Mystery was the greatest act of love that man will ever know. But: the glass is cold and lifeless in the midst of this storm. But: the Lord’s love is mysterious and distant, and Yuuri knows no truer simplicity than Viktor’s lips on his skin.

Raindrops look like tears on His holy face, shattered in agony as He prays in the garden of Gethsemane mere moments away from disaster. Is this what the Lord felt that night? Like his heart was beating out of his chest, hands and feet numb, anxiety a rabid demon in his stomach?

Yuuri thinks that this is what it feels like to be damned. The prescience of unavoidable disaster, with no choice but to keep breathing and breathing, knowing that the hour has come and it was time to die? What Viktor wants, what Yuuri wants – it’s impossible. And yet –

Even impossible dreams have their own champion.

Yuuri turns around.

There is never a moment when Viktor isn’t beautiful. But these tears falling down his cheeks – they make Yuuri want to be a rich man. He wants to gather those tears and turn them into gems. They make Yuuri a lustful man, as the tears bring back memories in quick succession: happy years, tears of laughter, the tears that leak out of Viktor’s eyes when he swallows Yuuri’s cock whole. Those tears make Yuuri want to break his vows.

But – “We can’t,” he rasps. “You know this.”

Viktor says nothing, just steps closer and closer until he crowds Yuuri into the organ console.

“Viktor – it’s not right.”

“Why not?” The words are sharp as a whip, staccato pronouncements that echo despite themselves. Viktor’s eyes are just as fierce, a predatory gleam surfacing behind the betrayal. “I love you, and you love me. It’s that simple; what’s wrong with love?”

“Everything! This – you and I aren’t meant for love, Viktor.” Yuuri’s voice cracks. “We can’t – not like this.”

Viktor steps closer; Yuuri steps back, and suddenly, he stumbles and only just catches himself against the organ keyboard. The organ comes to life, thunderous in its fury, discordant notes thrumming through Yuuri’s body. When Viktor finally touches him, cups his hand around Yuuri’s neck to draw him into a kiss –Yuuri moans, so lost to Viktor that he barely registers the keys digging into his back.

It is Maundy Thursday; Jesus has finished his last supper with his apostles and is making his way to Gethsemane to be betrayed. The church bells have been silenced and the altar has been stripped bare, but now: Yuuri and Viktor, Yuuri’s thighs bracketing Viktor’s and Viktor’s fingers in Yuuri’s hair. Viktor, moaning into Yuuri’s ear, Viktor, pushing Yuuri further and further into console’s keys and making the organ scream in protest.

“Tell me you want this,” Viktor whispers into Yuuri’s ear, somehow still loud and clear in the cacophony of noise. “Tell me you want me.”

“Always,” Yuuri gasps, and Viktor grinds his thigh against Yuuri’s cock. As Viktor’s fingers dip below the waist of his pants, Yuuri cries out to the heavens.  The heavens roar back, thunder crashing and the rain pouring, almost drowning out the organ’s voice.

The silence had been broken.

In that overwhelming noise, Viktor drops to his knees. “Do you think God will condemn us for this?” Viktor asked, reaching for Yuuri’s cock. “Do you think God hates his children for loving and living?”

He peers up at Yuuri through silvery-white eyelashes, eyes as blue as the stained glass of the Virgin’s robes. “Because I don’t. I’ve never felt more alive than I did while loving you, and I want to love you in every way I can.”

Before Yuuri can so much as breathe, Viktor licks a stripe up the underside of Yuuri’s cock and takes it all in, in one deft move that had Yuuri’s cock brushing against the back of Viktor’s throat.

 _Miserere mei,_ Yuuri prays, his back arching in pleasure and head thrown back in abandon. _Peccatum meum contra me est semper._ And one was before him, kneeling between his legs in worship. Yuuri stuffs his fist into his mouth, hoping against hope to muffle the lewd moans he was making, the wanton display he was making of himself. But Viktor pulls off his cock with a pop.

As if he could hear the song of contrition in Yuuri’s heart, Viktor looks him in the eye and replies. “ _Auditui meo dabis gaudium_ _et laetitiam -_ – don’t you dare hold back.”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations for those who want them: 
> 
> _Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est._ \-- Where love and charity are, God is.  
>  _Miserere mei, Deus_ \-- Have mercy on me, God; title of Psalm 51.  
>  _Peccatum meum contra me est semper._ \-- My sin is always before me; also from Psalm 51.  
>  _Auditui meo dabis gaudiam et laetitiam._ \-- Let me hear your pleasure and happiness; ALSO from Psalm 51. 
> 
> Visita Iglesia is a Catholic tradition of visiting a number of churches during Maundy Thursday; in the Philippines it is traditionally seven. 
> 
> Psalm 51 is one of the antiphons used in the Tenebrae service, which are the early morning services for the religious on Maundy Thursday to Black Saturday.


End file.
